The people, yes
by PageKat
Summary: Tony goes to therapy. Everyone has problems, and now he knows he isn't the worst case out there. Rated T for mentions of PTSD. Just some little blurbs, hope you enjoy.
1. The snake is dead, right?

**This just came to me... there may be more, but don't expect it.**

"So, how did therapy go?" Questioned Happy as he drove Tony back to Stark Tower.

Tony though for a moment and then said, "There are some *strange* people in the world, you know that?"

Happy rolled his eyes and waited for the story. At Steve's request, Tony was taking PTSD therapy again, and every session he came back with an interesting story.

"Well apparently Percy had a bad day. He just sat upstairs and watched us through the railing. Didn't say a word. Harry brought in a dead snake. I mean, it was stuffed, but still.

"When Sera, the counselor, asked him about it he said it was 'a victory.' Whatever that's supposed to mean." Happy shrugged and focused on the road. He was only half listening as Tony told his tale, so when he tuned back in he was totally confused.

"I'm sorry, did you say that he chased Daniel around swinging the snake around and shouting avada kadabra for several minutes?"

"Yeah, Sera couldn't get him to stop. It was weird, but then, who am I to judge?"

Happy suppressed a snort. Tony was interesting...but he could relate.


	2. Guilty By Association

"Hey Happy, would—hypothetically, of course—sharing a therapy group with a potentially homicidal mini-genius with long pointy ears and creepy purple eyes who appears to be suffering from Progeria and Munchausen Disorder and being subjected to her mainly world-domination oriented rants every other day make me—err, someone,—hypothetically guilty by association if she kills someone?"

There were many ways, Happy Hogan reflected, in which he could have responded to this question. He could have pointed out the legal ramifications of this hypothetical homicidal maniac's murdering someone. Or he could have brought into question, and thus debate, the possible threat to Tony's—or, a hypothetical someone's health being in the company of such a person for any amount of time. Or he could have let the question hang, treat it like the rhetorical question it most likely was, and ignore it—which would probably be for the best, anyway.

Happy did not, upon reflection, regret his answer, nor his purposeful obliviousness to the subjects he did not address at the time, which, considering said hypothetical potentially homicidal mini-genius with long pointy ears and creepy purple eyes who appeared to be suffering from Progeria and Munchausen Disorder's mysterious disappearance mere days later, and the conspicuous lack of any word about it, in any circles, he really should have been maybe a tiny bit anxious about.

No, he did not regret it, neither did he question his boss further on the apparent child-sized megalomaniac in his therapy group, instead choosing the simplest route to answer, and the most objective:

"I don't know Tony, I just drive."

**A/N: this appeared because I have a lot of time right now and nothing to do with it. For the record, anyone who happens to pop up in this story is just a by-product of whatever fandom I happen to be entrenched in at the moment, so it's pretty random.**

**kudos to anyone who can figure out who the topic of this particular conversation is!**


	3. Philosophy And Rabbits

**Would you look at that! An update! Wow. I don't know about you guys, but I really wasn't expecting this for a ****_long_**** time.**

_Chapter 3: Philosophy Is More Interesting With Rabbits_

"New addition to the group today."

Happy hummed questioningly. He was already settling into "New York City Driver" mode, which involved eyes, ears, nose, and the uniquely developed seventh sense drivers in The Big Apple tended to pick regarding oncoming traffic, unwary pedestrians, and everything else under the sun that decided to drop itself onto the road in front of you; so giving a multiple syllable, well-thought-out answer was out of the question. Resigning himself to torturing the car with any number of painful, speedily preformed maneuvers, Happy reconsidered his definition of "New York City Driver" mode. For normal people, it might be the sixth sense, he thought, it was only his seventh because his sixth was already used for the Tony-needs-coffee-and-a-cheeseburger sense.

Tuning (sort-of) back into the conversation that may or may not have been happening while he was lost in his inner-monologue, Happy said quite eloquently, "What?"

Belatedly, he realized that Tony was giving him a weird look now because he hadn't said anything else, instead pausing for a presumably introspective moment of silence to ponder this development. Hastily, Happy corrected himself, "Sorry, carry on."

So the car was filled with silence once more as Tony continued his thought process, which had indeed been cut off by his driver's unfortunately timed space-in (as opposed to space-out, of course). And then, when the silence had grown appropriately long and awkward, he spoke.

"Susie Derkins."

"Huh?" Said Happy again, having been half-focused on the road and half contemplating the shelf life of the cashew and garam masala pancakes he'd baked last weekend, now zoning-in once more.

Tony rolled his eyes, and letting out a long-suffering sigh, he said, "Susie Derkins. Unmarried, only keeps in contact with her mother, her sole living parent, her father having died in some terrible incident involving demented snowmen and noodles. And she has a rabbit."

Happy was confused. "How is that important?" Or even interesting?

"Oh, right," said Tony, and Happy deduced that this was simply one of those not uncommon instances where Tony temporarily forgot he was not the center of the world and that not everyone knew what he did and said and thought every moment of every day. Upon remembering that Happy had not been in the therapy session with him, Tony realized that some things would need to be explained to the mere mortals he interacted with daily, and, with this epiphany in mind, proceeded to do so:

"The rabbit is stuffed, and his name is Mr. Bun. He appears to be a support stuffed animal, and Ms. Derkins is under the impression that he is alive and her son."

"Ah," said Happy, not having been helped in the least toward vague understanding by that comment, but glad that Tony was remembering to explain for once.

"Normally," continued Tony, "I'd say that one-sided intellectual discussions can only go so far, but apparently not. I can now claim to have met someone with the supreme ability to debate the intricacies of morality in relation to beauty with a rabbit for three hours straight. So there."

Taking his eyes off the road for a brief, exceedingly risky, fraction of a second to catch a glimpse of Tony, Happy came to the conclusion that Tony was 1) not entirely sure if this was a good thing, 2) wondering if he could find himself a emotional support stuffed animal that wouldn't complain at him for ranting, rambling, and other related activities, and 3) should never, ever, on pain of death, be given any type of emotional support stuffed animal, lest they lose him to the world of complete insanity and one-sided discussions of vague philosophical topics with said stuffed animal.

With that in mind, Happy gave his obligatory hum of acknowledgement, and turned all of his senses back to the road ahead, content to ignore anything else Tony may say over the course of that car ride, and making a mental note to warn Pepper of the dangers that lay in the land of fluffy toys and plushies.

**A/N: Plot... plot is for people with plans. Since I don't have a plan, I don't need a plot! :) makes perfect sense to me.**


	4. Mr Bun Breathes Fiahhh!

**A/N: This dragged me out of bed this morning. Kicking and screaming. At 2:36. I might resent it for that. Just a little bit.**

_Chaptah 4: Mr. Bun Breathes Fiahhh!_

"Go go go!" When Tony Stark came tearing out of the little brick building where therapy was hosted like a bat out of hell, Happy Hogan was not particularly concerned. Despite Tony missing a shoe, his tie, and the two pairs of sunglasses he'd walked in there this morning with, Happy's level of concern was still not terribly high.

This might be because Happy had seen so many things go south in his time doing various jobs for Tony, not to mention all the incidents during his professional boxer career. Or maybe it was because he was well aware, at this point, that when Tony was around, there was only so long before things did not "go smoothly." This, of course, means that wherever Tony is, has been, or will be, something has or will deteriorate into a steaming heap of caffeinated-geniusified induced mess.

It was probably the latter of these reasons that Happy had preemptively had his foot on the gas pedal and the key in his hand for the past hour and a half.

So it was that as Tony came running, haphazardly and lopsided, towards the car, Happy carefully placed his signed copy of Freakonomics into the glove compartment next to his knitting implements and can of (just in case) mace, unconcerned.

A moment later, his boss threw open the backseat door and hurled himself in, crying, "Step on it Happy!"

Looking back and seeing the massive, live, stuffed rabbit that appeared to be glowing (possibly radioactively) chasing Tony that _definitely had not been there before_, Happy had no problems doing just that.

As they rocketed down the street away from the therapy building, and the rabbit, Happy forced himself to stop thinking about said rabbit and settle into "NYC Driver" mode. Behind him, he could hear Tony grumbling to himself as he got situated in the backseat.

"Operation 'Placate Steve With Therapy' is officially FUBAR." Happy had to wonder if that was because the building was currently in the process of exploding, or because going to the sessions was adding to his boss's already problematic PTSD, which the therapy was, ironically, supposed to resolve. And on that note, did he really want to know what happened?

Well, it appeared he didn't get a choice on the latter matter.

"The Pixie came back."

"Huh," said Happy, intelligently.

"The Pixie came back," Tony reiterated helpfully. "You know, the one who disappeared a month ago? The potentially homicidal mini-genius with long pointy ears and creepy purple eyes who appears to be suffering from Progeria and Munchausen Disorder? That one. Well, she's back, and not happy... and apparently a Pixie. Or so I gathered from her ranting."

Alright... well, that wasn't confusing, or disturbing.

"Ranting?" Happy asked. It may be best, he thought, to just let Tony explain this one.

"Yup." Said his boss, now recovered from his aforementioned flying leap into the backseat. "She came back to Therapy, with some fancy tech and minions. Not fancy minions, just tech... actually, the minions seemed a bit dull, with all the times she had to give them her orders. She should really invest in some smarter minions."

Tony paused for a moment here, possibly to consider places in which a possibly evil little person could get herself some decent minions to follow her around and do her bidding properly like the tiny genius she was. Happy himself knew a few places. He'd been in the business long enough, he _knew_ things.

Happy pulled himself out of his contemplation when Tony continued his story, feeling that it would probably be wise not to tune this one out. "She didn't come back to actually be in the group, though, she just wanted to wipe it off the face of the planet it for wasting her time... not sure why she came in the first place, then, but whatever. So she brought her minions, and tried to destroy it." Looking back, Happy couldn't see the explosion any more, but Tony seen it, apparently, as he followed that with, "Though maybe she _has_ succeeded now. Or that might have been Harry."

"Hold on," said Happy, "Harry the British Snake Guy? What does he have to do with it?" Following that train of thought, what is a Brit with a stuffed snake taking therapy in the US for anyway? Happy set that thought aside to consider later, instead turning back to Tony's explanation.

"Well," said Tony, "when Koboi—that's the Pixie—came blasting in with her minions, he pointed a stick at her—"

"And the snake?" Happy couldn't resist it.

"Yes, the snake too, but the stick actually did something. It shot yellow lighting at her! Yellow lightning, Happy, from a stick! Along with some butchered Latin, but that's not important. I want me a lightning stick." Here Tony paused to ruminate over his desire to have a stick with which to shoot lightning at people, then kept on with the story. "Anyway, Harry did that, with the snake and the Latin lightning stick, and then Percy jumped into the fray."

Percy, as far as Happy knew, never went anywhere without his trusty ballpoint pen, and hated elevators with a burning passion. This couldn't go well.

"Percy produced a baseball bat from... somewhere, actually, I don't know where he got it. Maybe it was in the flowerpot. Or the pocket dimension."

"Pocket dimension?!" Happy may be a bit worried now. Just slightly.

"Oh, yeah, did I not say that? Koboi opened this rift thingy, and there must've been a dimension in there, or something, 'cause all sorts of wacky things started crawling out of it."

"...right." Said Happy, "Alright, so the baseballs bat, possibly originating from a flower pot or a pocket dimension..."

"Right, so he attempts to stab the minions with the bat—why you would stab someone with a bat, I don't know—shouting something about glitter, and breath mints? I have no clue, but he did it."

"Huh," Said Happy, "what did the others do?"

"Well, Sears tried to—"

"Sears?"

"Counselor."

"I thought her name was Sera."

"It is. Sears tried to call security, who were probably on the way already—don't know how they wouldn't be, with all the noise we were making—but she got knocked out by one of the minions, Mervin, maybe? The rest of them ran screaming. Except Derkins, she stayed, and threw Mr. Bun at the pocket dimension."

Happy, thinking about the massive possibility radio-active rabbit that had been chasing Tony, was pretty sure he knew how well that worked out.

"Right, so... what did you do?"

"Me?" Said Tony, "I got out of there as fast as my legs could take me."

Right, Happy remembered, the suit, or the one that Tony used most, was busy self-repairing after Tony had crashed it into a massive billboard that no one had any idea how he hadn't seen that day before, resulting in extensive damage, thankfully not to Tony himself.

"So, are you going to call the Avengers in for this one?" Glancing at his rear-view mirror, Happy did a double take. The rabbit was growing. He could see it's ears over the roof tops.

Tony pulled his head back in the window, and said, a bit breathlessly, "If they aren't already on it, I think I'll sign them all up for the eye doctor."

"And the ears, too," he added as an afterthought, having to shout over the noise of screaming and fire trucks as the Mr. Bun made himself know to the world at large, by bathing the Big Apple in fire.

Why could the rabbit breath fire? Happy didn't know, he just drove.

**A/N: that was... long. Hope you enjoyed it!**


	5. Gingersnap Witches

**A/N: it's evolving. Maybe it will reach 'reasonably qualifies as a story' state someday? **

_Chapter 5: Gingersnap Witches_

After the Koboi Crisis, as the incident with Mr. Bun had been dubbed, Tony's therapy sessions started right back up again. Or so the email notice Tony got two weeks later informed. Happy willingly drove his boss over to the new location, the old one being literally a grease spot now, but decided to go in with his boss and wait in the lobby while Tony went off somewhere to make sure there was indeed Therapy.

Waiting inside was... insightful. Happy thought he could understand just a little bit of what created Tony's stories now.

Happy shifted again in his seat and wondered if all waiting room chairs were created to be the most uncomfortable things on the planet, or if it was just a design flaw. Because really, why couldn't you just have a bench? Then you wouldn't need to smoosh yourself into things that were clearly made for someone half the size of a normal human, and you could read you book comfortably without having to move every other minute so your body didn't start complaining again.

And why were there only five? Five! That's an odd number! That means the row of chairs can only fit three people per the usual one seat away rule. With only five seats and more than three complete strangers in the room, it was automatically awkward. Someone, Happy decided, must not want people waiting around out here. It was probably that receptionist. She looked awfully grumpy, Happy would bet money she just wanted to get back to her illicit computer activities. Maybe she had taken the sixth chair?!

Attempting to take his mind off the cramped position, Happy eyed the rest of the room. There was an equally uncomfortable looking man sitting two seats away, with white-blonde hair, probably dyed, fiddling with some sort of stones. Wearing a cozy leather jacket and a candy cane scarf, Happy observed that he would be much more suited to somewhere colder. Or, judging by his fidgeting, anywhere but here, really. Happy could identify with that.

Someone, it seemed, had had way too much time and way too many pipe cleaners, because everything out of reach of the receptionist's desk had been Wizard of Oz-ified. Everywhere Happy looked, little brown and yellow monkeys with wings decorated the room. Some of them had fezzes. And hold on, was that—? Happy leaned closer. Yup. The wicked witch of the East's legs, striped purple and black, complete with curling red poulaines stuck out from underneath the lamp on the small table beside him. That was comforting.

Happy needed to get up. Leaning over had dug the armrest of his seat into his stomach and it was now screaming silently. But just getting up to walk around would be strange. Then he spotted it. Salvation in the form of a water dispenser tucked away in the corner on the other side of the room. Levering himself out of the trap—sorry, the seat, with some difficulty, Happy made a bee-line for it.

Grabbing a cup, Happy looked down to find the switches. Oh, and there was the other witch. Or, at least, part of her. One soggy hand stuck out of the slatted grille underneath the water dispenser, grasping hopelessly at the air, bits of wire showing around the soaked fuzz. What a gruesome death, Happy thought, and pressed the switch.

The water sprayed down around the pipe-cleaner arm, and with a gurgling scream, it was sucked through the grille and disappeared. Slightly disturbed, Happy filled his water cup.

Fifteen minutes and no sign of Tony. Happy wondered if he should be worried.

Glinda the Good Witch was hanging from the fan. In pieces. He'd noticed her three minutes ago and Happy could still feel her eyes boring holes into the top of his skull. He kept his gaze away from her though, feeling inexplicably guilty whenever he caught a glimpse of her dismembered body, fuzz and wire twisted into almost grotesque shapes in order to cling to the light in the center of the fan.

Candy-cane scarf man had noticed her too, it seemed. A few minutes ago, he'd put away the stones he'd been fiddling with and summoned a baggy of ginger snaps from places unknown to Happy. He seemed to be considering throwing them at the Good Witch. Happy himself had started thinking that might be a good idea. Anything to get her accusing button eyes off him.

He couldn't seem to find Dorthy and her troupe anywhere either.

There was a lake monster in the sink. Happy had gotten up and wandered out to find the bathroom some time ago, and now found himself in it, but very concerned. He'd found Dorthy and Co., and the Mines of Moria.

Happy had to give it to whoever had created the scene, they were quite talented. Never mind the mixing of fandoms bit. The massive black lake monster took up half the half the mirror space on the wall, and _all of the sinks._

It was curled around and through them like a living vine that had entrapped a section of fence, except it was bigger, made completely of pipe cleaners, and its fence was a sink. Three sinks, actually.

Luckily for Happy, he didn't really need to use the restroom, or the sinks, he had simply needed to get away from Glinda. And he had plenty of time. Probably. So he leaned closer to examine it, as you do, when faced with artistry of this caliber.

As he'd seen when he came in, Dorthy and her friends were scattered all about the room. The cowardly lion, who was actually a lion, and a very detailed one at that, was being eaten alive, near the beak-like mouth of the beast. Clearly, they hadn't reached the Emerald City yet, because he was screaming and flailing, vividly. The Scarecrow was in pieces on the floor, where the sink monster was spilling over and out across the tiles. Maybe he'd jumped. The tin man may not have a heart, but he certainly had courage, as he was over by the paper towel dispenser, attempting to rescue Dorthy herself—sans red shoes, which were still on the Wicked Witch's feet—from being tossed into the trash by one of the creature's many limbs.

Scattered about the scene were also the entire pipe cleaner Fellowship of the Ring. Happy wondered if they were collectible. Gandalf was standing in one of the only open spaces on the sink's surface, with his arms and staff raised, presumably saying "You Shall Not Pass Gas!" or something of the like. Aragorn and Legolas were duking it out with seven of the Sink Monster's tentacles, and Sam was hauling Frodo out of one of the sinks, in which the Sink Monster appeared to be sucking the ring-bearer in. It took Happy a moment to spot Merry and Pippin escaping through the ceiling vents, but he when he did, he had to take a picture, strangely reminded of Clint. And Boromir, Boromir was dead on the tiles below the sink, clear of the flailing beast, and surrounded by what Happy certainly hoped was juice, spelling out words around him.

Tilting his head to read them as best he could Happy could only laugh, once the massage got through. There, written out in pipe-cleaner blood on the floor of the bathroom next to the scarecrow with no brain, the creator had decided to let loose their frustrations on the world.

_This is what you get Sean Bean! Either say you name Seen Bean or Shawn Bawn, I don't care, but until you do, you shall forever be damned to deepest, darkest, balrog infested pits that character deaths in cinema have to offer! So there!_

Of course, while Happy was bent over, breathlessly laughing in front of a monster-filled sink, of course that was the moment Tony would choose to enter. Because fate wouldn't have it any other way. Lucky him.

Tony, being Tony, didn't spare the scene a second glance, save to snatch Toto off of the monster's head, where he'd apparently been controlling the thing, and tuck the dog into his pocket. That done, he gave Happy a mere moment to recover, snorting at the message on the floor, before heading for the door.

When they returned to the lobby to retrieve Happy's book, Glinda was not on the fan anymore. Nope, she was smooshed throughly on the floor, and Candy-cane scarf man was doing his best to look totally inconspicuous. The receptionist kept throwing him worried looks, so Happy could figure out what happened pretty easily.

Giving Candy-cane scarf man a thumbs up, which earned him a small smile, Happy picked up his book and followed Tony out. Half-way to the door, he remembered to ask, "So _do_ you have Therapy this week?"

"Nope!" Answered Tony, "False alarm. We're going home."

"Great, great," said Happy, not about to ask if his boss was sure, because of course he was sure, and even if he wasn't, Happy was of the opinion that if he never had to step foot in this place again, it would be too early.

Glinda would haunt his nightmares, he was sure of that much.


End file.
